We got a gust of the northwind this afternoon. She brushed through the trees and stirred up the dust and was gone faster than any of us liked. A respite though. Brief and necessary. I had forgotten what it felt like.
I drove home tonight with my windows rolled down, the heat of the day subsided, and the evening air moist and heavy. It will not rain, I know this. I am learning Texas. But it is enough to feel like it might rain. It is enough to be content with a hope, even if I know it won't come true.
I confessed to Him on the way home. Said words out loud. Asked questions. How long? Why? What's your divine purpose and why me? Why this for me?
The other night I cried in front of my roommates, confessed the deepest hurt of my soul and they listened. They don't understand, how can they? I'd never wish that they would! But they listened.
And I think sometimes that is what I think about God. That He listens but doesn't understand. And when He finishes listening, He is gentle with me, loves me, tells me it won't always be like this, but then He goes on. Because being listened to should be enough sometimes. I think this about God and I think I'm wrong.
The deepest ache of my soul is that the Father doesn't care, not really. That He will listen, but when I am finished and my tears are spent, my heart raw before Him. He was thank me for my transparency and He will move on to His next appointment. The truth, though, is this is not a Father's heart at all.
He does not give half-gifts or half of his time. He does not give snakes instead of fish, or rocks in place of bread. He is not tapping His toe waiting for me to just hurry up and be content with the mere heaviness of air, while He holds back heavens full of rain. He doesn't withhold any good thing from us.
I pull into my driveway and ask Him, right out loud, "God, what is good for me?"
"What is the best thing for this day for me?"
(This is not a selfish prayer, I am learning. This is where we begin so that we can always end at His glory, because He knows. He knows.)
I walk into my living room, where my roommates and a friend are watching a movie, eating popcorn. I make an egg for dinner, with a peach and I ask Him, more quietly this time, "What is it God? What?"
"Where am I settling for a mere shadow of things to come, when you want to show me the richness of today, today?"
This is it, He says. Here. With these people. In this home. With that peach. With the wind today. And the words spoken tonight at church. The hug in the hallway. The encouragement from a friend. The provision for my car problems. The opportunity to sit and write. The quietness of my room. This is my good for you today.
And it is enough.